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"First of all, don’t you ever accuse me of having morals, narrative or otherwise, ever again."
❝-— Not even a narrative? Or otherwise? Oh, darling...you ask too much of me. ❞ a hand placed dramatically to his chest.
❝ Look, you can make an argument for the morals but...you're a funky lil' rockstar man with a demon entanglement. I'm afraid you're a bitch with a backstory and with a plot. ❞
Damon corbin - 𝖒𝖔𝖉𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝒌𝖊𝖗 𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖈𝖍 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖆 𝖘𝖒𝖎𝖑𝖊 . c @damienstoker
@damienstoker . . .
❝ What’s this one called? ❞
@damienstoker ;; they're creepy and they're kooky (still accepting) "I'd rather stick needles in my eyes. I'll probably do that anyway."
"THAT WON'T KEEP YOU FROM HEARING IT, THOUGH," Castiel cheerfully replies as he puts a quarter in the jukebox and selects a country song he likes. He knows that humans can be very peculiar about music, though the angel usually finds at least one song he enjoys in every genre. "You would need to stick needles in your ears to stop hearing this. And I don't recommend harming your eyes, anyway. Humans only have two of those, you should be careful."
@damienstoker sent: 💿 Gerard | send me a 💿 and i'll shuffle my music and write a starter based on the first song i get!
"We can dance if we want to," the vampire said, leaning in close to be heard over the thrumming bass of the club's speakers. Goth rock, post-punk and darkwave music had been steady all night. Sanguine after dark was a haven for those with alternative tastes.
Gerard had been courting Damien. Not romantically, but professionally. The club manager knew that Damien was likely used to playing larger venues. His method of attack for the night would be selling the musician on the venue: its staff, its exclusivity, its vibe and typical clientele. So far things were going well. Gerard was sure that he could convince Damien that his music and Sanguine's atmosphere would be a perfect match.
The room was dark and windowless, illuminated with bright red and white spotlights and accent fixtures across the dancefloor and bar. The entire place had a crimson glow befitting its namesake. Clubgoers mingled and shifted around the dancefloor, and guests clustered in small groups near the long bar along the far wall. The club was at medium capacity; it could certainly fit more people, but business was steady.
"I'm not technically on the clock as acting manager tonight, so I can show you around and we can enjoy the club if you'd like. Let me know if you want a drink from the bar, it'll be on the house."
"IM NOT GONNA SIT HERE AND LECTURE YOU on what an idiotic choice you made." Bobby spouts, arms crossed over chest as he stands before the other. "What I am gonna do is figure out a way to keep this thing outta'ya." Demons were tricky, slimy, conniving little bastards. Usually when you made a deal they made sure that deal stuck ; no ifs ands or butts. Still-- there had to be something they could do for the adolescent musician. The elder hunter had seen people sell their souls for less than fame and fortune, hell the idea had crossed his mind more than once over at the thought of having Karen back . . . Some people were stronger than the pain and others-- well some others were just people feeling feelings and sometimes it's just too much. Memories of Dean and his deal shutter through Bobby's mind, snapshot after snapshot of their mission gone wrong and his adopted son laid out on the floor-- cut to ribbons and mauled ; the image forces Bobby to snap lids shut for a moment-- he wasn't going to let that happen to Damien.
"First things first, lemme show you your new accommodations." He says and leads off with a nod down the hallway toward the basement. There's only one thing Bobby can think of to keep the hell spawn at bay and considering the rock star wasn't possessed at the moment he should be right as rain to step inside the bunker. "Viola-- I know it ain’t the Mirage in Las Vegas, but she’ll keep ya safe FROM WHATEVER HELL BUDDY'S TRYINA' WEAR YOU TO THE PROM."
@damienstoker | random starter
❝ that’s not funny , @damienstoker . ❞ but the fact that she’s having to bite down on the corner of her bottom lip gives away that it is , in fact , a little funny . she glances up from the papers spread across her desk , arms folding over them and head cocking to one side as she watches him . ❝ didn’t i leave you in the studio to , y’know , work on an album or something really important like that ? because i could have sworn that the head honchos that are distributing this promised record were promised at least a sneak peek by the end of the week . ❞ browse raise in mock chastisement even as she leans back in her chair , arms stretching so that hands rest on the papers on her desk . ❝ they’re trying to shut down tree hill records ... so unless you have any ideas on how to fix it ... you should probably get something recorded so we can keep the label . ❞
"you bald-headed demon…"
❝-—Hey, what the fuck? ❞ it was such a left-field insult that Clark couldn't react any more gracefully than that. He gestured to his own hair and then his entire being in exasperation.
❝ Not bald. Not a demon. You're batting 0-2, Rockstar. ❞
